


A Girl Like You in a Place Like This (The Honey Trap Remix)

by Medie



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira's not so insecure as to judge her worth by anyone else, but she's smart enough to recognize where she stands on the evolutionary ladder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Girl Like You in a Place Like This (The Honey Trap Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aphrodite_mine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sensory](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7929) by aphrodite_mine. 



Emma finds her in an alley. Moira gets the barest brush of a presence, fingers combing lazily through her thoughts, before she hears boot heels strike concrete and feels real, flesh and blood fingers brush her cheek.

She can't move.

It's not until she tries to turn, to confront Emma, that she realizes it. She can't move. 

"No," Emma says, "You can't, but don't worry, honey, I'm not going to kill you."

Moira exhales and tries to relax. In the hands of a telepath, she's never going to have the upperhand and she has to remember that. 

"You're learning," Emma breathes, looking pleased. "There's hope for you yet." Her smile is wicked and Moira's cheeks burn as Emma leans into her and murmurs, "Not much, of course. You were right about that." 

This is the last place Moira expected to find Emma Frost, but that's the least of her worries. First and foremost is everything she's desperately trying not to think about. Its the worst of dealing with a telepath; the more you try to hide it, the brighter it gets in your mind. Remembering that, Moira quells the panic best she can and, instead, digs into the boring minutiae of her day. It won't hold Emma off for long, if at all, but Moira still has to try. 

"Not just that," Moira says, relieved to realize she still has control of her voice. "I read the transcripts of your interrogation. You were wrong, you know."

"I doubt that."

"There is going to be a war," Moira says, "but it isn't the one you think." 

Surprise flashes briefly in Emma's eyes, but Moira's not sure why. If its her words, the memory filling her thoughts, or a combination of both. She'll never forget that moment on the beach. She can't. The betrayal in Erik's eyes when Charles intervened; the loss that's become Charles' constant companion. Moira imagines it happening over and over again. Child against parent, sister against brother, lover against lover...with humanity caught in the middle.

"That won't happen," Emma says, but steps back, momentarily shaken. She recovers quickly. A blink and her expression is nothing more than bored amusement, as if there's nothing in the world that interests her and what sort of challenge could anyone like Moira be, really? 

Moira lifts her chin. "It already has," she says. Charles fought Erik for them. For all of them. Even the ones who don't deserve it. 

Emma smiles. "You really believe that, don't you? Mutant against mutant in a civil war over _humans_? It's sweet, really." She circles around Moira, slow and casual, and her fingers (diamond hard now) slide over Moira's coat. Cold air works its way against heated skin. "Is your dear Professor Xavier going to save you all?"

"No," Moira says. Her fingers twitch. "We're not asking him to." 

"You should be begging him," Emma says, icy cold. "You're nothing compared to him. Do you understand that?"

Moira does. She's not so insecure as to judge her worth by anyone else, but she's smart enough to recognize where she stands on the evolutionary ladder. She understands now better than she ever did back on that beach. Mutation isn't just about superpowers like Emma's. The human body couldn't support the average mutant ability, not without an incredibly enhanced physiology to go with it. 

Survival of the fittest. 

Emma makes a noise at that, sounding like a cat purring in satisfaction. " _Precisely_. The future belongs to us, not you." 

"I don't think so." 

Moira moves. She wants to call it lunging forward, but it's lurched fall. Emma skids on her heels and stumbles back against the cold brick wall, yielding reluctantly to the weight of Moira's body and the gun jabbed into her side. 

Emma's laughter is light, airy, and jarring in the grit and grime of the alley. She's never looked like she belonged in the middle of this cold war of theirs. Delicate, beautiful, and so far above any of this that, some days, Moira still can't believe the woman is a terrorist. She's struggled with the idea from the moment she watched her stroll across a Russian general's lawn, dressed like a runway model, on her way to engineer Shaw's brave new world via nuclear apocalypse. 

The idea hasn't gotten any easier to swallow with the intervening years. Hearing the speculation on how a woman of Emma's power and potential could so meekly follow a man like Shaw—Moira flinches away from the thought and slams a mental door on it. "Sorry," she says, "My mind wandered." 

"Oh, no need to apologize on my account," Emma says, and Moira blinks. She has one of Emma's arms pinned; her prisoner's hand is pressed to the wall behind her, but Moira can still feel palms rubbing up and down her hips. "Please feel free to think about those days all you want." Emma's lips quirk and her breath is warm where it feathers against Moira's cheek. "I promise I won't even listen."

Moira doesn't believe that for a second and wouldn't even if she couldn't still the featherlight touch of Emma traipsing through her thoughts. The warmth of someone's presence in her mind is familiar ground, even if the that presence translating into physical sensation is not.

She shivers, trying not to think about how good it feels even as she wonders if _she_ is the one thinking that.

Emma's eyes glint. "Oh, trust me, sugar," she drawls. "It's you." 

“They’d look the other way if I killed you, you know." Thinking of the superiors who are right (these days, anyway) to doubt her loyalty, Moira feels a twist of disgust.

"Don't be so modest," Emma says, dry. "They'd give you a ticker tape parade." 

The warmth of her mental presence shifts, changes, and Moira realizes that Emma should have shifted into diamond form by now. It would be game over with Moira's bullets completely unable to penetrate that skin. 

"Because I'm enjoying this, silly," Emma says, her body slides against Moira's. "Especially the part about you committing treason. Just what has Charles had you doing?"

"It isn't treason to disregard unlawful orders." Moira focuses on the feeling of Emma's hand playing over the rips in her coat, wanting to ignore the way her body tightens in answer. She isn't even sure that it's really Emma's hand. She can't tell the difference between the phantom fingers and the real thing and part of her doesn't want to care. It's the part of her that's swimming with arousal and leaning into the touch, eager for more of the same. "Most mutants haven't done anything wrong. They deserve to be left alone." 

"You're hiding something from me. What is it?" Emma's mind presses into Moira's. It's an impossible feeling, something Moira's body is struggling to translate into physical sensation. Her skin prickles all over, hair standing on end; arousal makes her head swim. 

Moira groans when invisible fingers work their way between her legs, rubbing where she's already wet. "I'm hiding everything from you," she chokes out, laughing. The gun wavers, but she doesn't let go. Not even when it feels as though two fingers thrust into her and she cries out with it. 

"You might think so," Emma's fingers keep up their maddening rhythm, making Moira shake, "but no." 

God, she hasn't felt like this in—she has never felt like this. She's never allowed herself the freedom of it.

Moira's always known, been aware, of the eyes watching her and the lines she dare not cross. She's always been so very careful and never allowed herself the luxury she's giving herself now. The hand that isn't holding the gun rests on Emma's arm, curling into the fine fabric of her sleeve and holding tight. She's on fire, or so it feels, her hips moving of their own accord as her orgasm breaks.

Her head falls forward on Emma's shoulder. The phantom fingers vanish with the orgasm and the alley begins to intrude on the moment. Moira's spent, relaxed, but still aware of the cold air of evening as it settles in. 

"You shouldn't be able to hide anything from me," Emma says, petulant. "How are you doing this?"

Moira misses the time before her own mind needed to be partitioned, locking secrets away even from herself, but she can feel Emma battering against those walls—now throwing herself at them in frustration. It's enough to make Moira smile in pride as Emma begins to understand.

" _Charles_ ," she snaps, annoyed. "He did this."

"No, he just taught me how." Moira straightens, secure in the training Charles has been giving her. She's no threat to a telepath, but she can keep one dancing. At least long enough for the cavalry to ride to the rescue...

She kisses Emma; it's only an apology in part. The rest is a mixture of desire, pleasure, and plea. 

"We're not asking Charles to save us," she whispers, hot against Emma's lips. "We're helping him save _you_."


End file.
